Once Upon a Downton
by BroadwayBaggins
Summary: A collection of Once Upon a Time/Downton Abbey crossover drabbles, of a variety of pairings and settings, inspired and written for drabble prompts on tumblr. Rating subject to change.
1. Edith and August: Storybrooke

**Author's Note: Hello! I have finally decided to put all of my "miscellaneous" Once Upon a Downton crossover drabbles in one place, to make things more organized and easier to find. Each "chapter" will contain different pairings and stories, but I'll try to keep things as organized as I can. Hope you enjoy!**

"So…just where exactly is this…Storybrooke?" the girl—Edith—asked suddenly. She blinked at him, her hazel eyes wide as she waited for August's response, and he realizeD that her eyes were streaked with tears. _Poor kid really doesn't have a clue where she is._ No wonder she looked at him as if he and his motorcycle were about to eat her alive. The bike had been abandoned in the woods where he'd found her, standing sentinel until he came to reclaim it again. He'd offered to give her a lift into town on it—God knows it would have been quicker—but she'd looked so frightened that he'd finally given in and agreed to walk. Thankfully, they weren't too far from town at this point—August didn't even want to know how bad it would be if he'd found her deeper into the woods.

"Judging from your accent—" something in the girl's tone told August she was _judging_ a lot more than just his accent—"I take it…we're somewhere in America? That is, assuming this isn't some sort of a hallucination. Or a dream. But your accent…am I wrong in assuming that this, whether it is real or not, is America?"

"You're right, although I can't make any promises about the whole hallucination thing. We're in Maine."

"Maine," Edith repeated. A little crinkle had formed between her eyebrows, as if she were concentrating on a map of the United States in her mind. "That's…north of New York?"

"Sweetheart, we're basically as far north as you can get without stepping into Canada."

"I hardly think we know each other well enough for you to call me _sweetheart,"_ she bristled in response.

"Apologies. So, Edith, do you believe in fairytales?"

She stared at him, picking up her hem to keep it out of reach of the forest floor. "What sort of a question is that?"

"Humor me."

"You certainly are pushy, for someone in a dream. I don't even think Alice in Wonderland had these sort of problems."

He bit back a chuckle. This girl was a handful, but he couldn't deny she was entertaining.

A twig snapped somewhere behind them, but he ignored it.

"What kind of a town is Storybrooke?" Edith asked, ignoring his previous question.

"What do you care? You think you're dreaming anyway."

"It can hardly hurt to be prepared."

"Fair point. I haven't been in Storybrooke long myself, but from what I can tell, it's a nice enough town. Small. Quiet. Not without it's fair share of drama, though. Don't get on the bad side of the wrong people, or you'll regret it. And…well…"

"What?"

"Remember how I asked you if you believed in fairytales?"

"Yes, of course."

"If you think you don't, you might want to re-evaluate that. Just some advice."

"Whyever would you tell me that?"

"Because for all intents and purposes, sweetheart, you're in a fairytale now."


	2. Emma and Matthew: Invitation

God, she misses the 21st century.

She misses her son and her parents, the familiarity of her yellow Bug and her old jeans and her leather jacket and, God, her cell phone. Most of all, and probably most surprising, she misses magic. Storybrooke is saturated with magic, thanks to Regina and Gold. Here, the magic is much fainter, just out of her reach, and the powers she holds within herself fight to be released. She feels trapped in her own skin, constantly on edge, which she's sure isn't endearing her to her newfound acquaintances. Mrs. Isobel Crawley and her son took the discover of a stranger in their garden as well as it might be expected, but she knows they're dying to know more about her. Her cover story, that she got lost while riding (it was the only way she could even attempt to explain the fact that she'd been wearing skinny jeans when they'd found her) isn't going to last long. If it hadn't been for a twisted ankle that Mrs. Crawley insisted that she let her keep an eye on, Emma is pretty sure they would have thrown her out already.

Emma sighs, trying to get as deep a breath as she can in these ridiculous clothes. She's been put into clothes borrowed from a cousin of Matthew's, laced and buttoned up so tightly that she can barely move, although thankfully the corset wasn't cinched as tight as she'd been fearing. A hat covers her face and blocks out the sun, making her feel shut off from the new world she's found herself in. Emma doesn't mind. It gives her time to think.

Something tells her that when Zelena opened her portal to the past, she hadn't been expecting it to take her to 1913 England.

"Miss Swan?"

Emma turns to see Matthew Crawley jogging up to her, his blue eyes bright and curious. "Mother wanted me to ask you if you wanted to accompany us to dinner at Downton Abbey tonight."

A formal dinner is the last thing Emma needs right now, not when she needs to focus on going home. "I don't think so," she says skeptically. "I mean, thank you for the offer, but…" she searches for a polite response as Matthew's face falls. "I wouldn't want to impose."

"You wouldn't be imposing, I assure you."

"I'm not really the kind of girl one invites to a fancy dinner, believe me. Not around here."

"If you're referring to your American origins, then let me tell you that Lady Grantham herself comes from America. I'm sure she'd love having another Yankee to talk to."

Emma smiles in spite of herself. The poor guy is just trying to be nice, after all. "I really appreciate the offer, Matthew—Mr. Crawley. I just don't think I'd fit in. Just trust me on this."

"I don't really fit in with my family either. You won't be alone, Miss Swan. Please come. Mother's told them all about you and they're so curious to meet you."

Emma arches an eyebrow. "Even if I'm from a whole other world compared to this one?" The question, without a hint of irony, flies from her mouth before she can stop it. Oh well.

Matthew smiles. "I think perhaps especially then. They want to get to know you better, Miss Swan. And I must admit…so do I."

She accepts the invitation.


	3. Belle and Richard Carlisle: Consequences

_**Author's Note: So, the crossovers continue, but in order to avoid annoying everyone with 52 variations upon a theme of "and then they fell into a portal," I'm going to try something different with this crossover prompt—non-magical AU! Everyone else seems to be doing it (Locked In, various CS fics I can't come up with titles for right now) so why not me?**_

_**So here we go, Belle and Carlisle in the (nonmagical) world of Downton Abbey. I'm not **_**intentionally **_**trying to cast Carlisle into Rumpelstiltskin's role…but it's kind of what's happening…**_

The smirk the man offered her was enough to make Belle's skin crawl, but she held her head high. She was not too proud to ask for help for her father, and she was not about to go crawling away from here until she had gotten what she came here for. He stared at her, shaking his head. "I hope you know just what it is you're asking, Miss French. Your father is going to need powerful friends behind him to keep a scandal like this quiet. I can be a powerful friend, but if crossed…I can also be a powerful enemy."

Belle swallowed. "I understand."

"If this fails, I will have to wash my hands of you and your father completely, in order to save my reputation. And you can forget about your friendship with Lady Mary Crawley if a single word of this scandal leaks out. Her family won't let a disgraced family like yours anywhere near her."

Tears stung Belle's eyes, but she would not let them fall. "I know. That's why we've come to you for help."

"Because I have the power to keep the story from going to the press."

"Yes."

"Forgive me for speaking frankly, Miss French." He did not sound sorry at all. "Unfortunately, sometimes the truth can sting a bit."

"You don't have to tell me, Sir Richard," Belle said flatly. "My father and I are incredibly grateful for your help, and if there is any way we can ever repay you—"

He snorted with derision. "There isn't."

Belle felt about three inches tall as he gazed at her, as if she were a bug about to be squashed. She hated having to beg and grovel like this, but for her father, she would do anything. She just had to keep holding her head high, not let Sir RIchard know that his every word struck like a knife. If this was the price she had to pay for keeping her father's reputation safe, then so be it.

"But you're a smart girl, Belle." She bristled at the informality. "I wager you'd figured that out already. All you need to worry about is staying on my good side. I'll keep your father's secrets, make sure you remain in your friend's good graces, silence anyone who tries to smear the French name. But if I find you've betrayed me, or told anyone of our deal…well, as I said, I can be an extremely powerful enemy. I can keep your father's name clean or I can drag it through the mud whenever I choose. So if either of you does something to displease me…well, my dear, use your imagination."


	4. Emma and Matthew: Superpowers

As bad as the everyday clothes are, Emma finds the wardrobe of an Edwardian dinner party is even worse.

It's not as if the dress she's been given—another hand-me-down, she assumes—isn't beautiful. It is. The periwinkle-colored silk falls to her ankles like water, and part of her wonders if her mother ever wore anything like this in her time in the Enchanted Forest. But even clad in the gorgeous dress, Emma still feels more like an ugly duckling than anything else, and the same insecurities that had plagued her in middle school seem to have cropped up again as the maid, Beth, puts the finishing touches on whatever elaborate updo she has managed to wrangle Emma's hair into. She knows she shouldn't be so nervous at the prospect of meeting Matthew's relatives—she's faced far worse than this, she's the goddamn Savior, she's fought a _dragon—_but she can't help the butterflies that are making her nervous stomach churn. The idea of meeting English aristocracy in the past is something that she never even considered a possibility—even for the magical daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming.

_What if they take one look at me and know I'm not who I say I am?_

"That looks marvellous, Beth, thank you," says a voice from behind them, and Emma almost jumps. She'd almost forgotten about Matthew's mother entirely, although she'd been observing Beth get Emma ready for what was bound to be an eventful occasion. "Simply marvelous. Thank you, my dear."

"It was nothing, mum," Beth says, but she looks pleased to have her work complimented. "Will there be anything else?"

"No, that will be all. Please inform Mr. Crawley that Miss Swan and I will be ready to go shortly."

The maid curties and leaves, and then it is only Emma and Isobel. Emma tries to meet the woman's stare with one of her own, but her gaze wavers. Why is it that these mild-mannered English seem to be striking more fear into her heart than Zelena and her threats ever did?

"Well," Isobel says, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. "It's quite the transformation, I will admit."

"Thanks."

"But my dear, listen to me. You do realize you are entering the lion's den?"

Emma's brow furrows. "Huh? I mean, what?"

"Oh, my dear. Trust me. These people seem to take an immediate dislike to anything new or unusual, and you are both. Now, I'm sure you'll win them over in the end, but at least at first, try not to draw too much attention to yourself. I'll do my best to give a reasonable explanation as to why you're here. I'm not quite sure what we'll do about Matthew, but I'm working it out."

"I…I still don't know what you mean."

"Miss Swan, do you really think the Crawley family is going to buy your little story about getting lost on your horse?"

_Oh, shit._

"Don't worry, I won't ask you for the truth just yet. You have your reasons for hiding it, I have no doubt. I'll say that I'm a long-lost acquaintance of your mother's, or something. Matthew would most likely believe that if we spun it well enough. Oh, don't look so shocked, my dear!" She reaches out and puts her hand on Emma's upper arm. Emma jerks at the touch, but does not flinch away entirely. Somehow, the touch seems comforting. "You are not in any danger, I promise you. I've just always been good at figuring out when someone is lying to me."

"No kidding? I'm the same way."

"Then it seems we have something in common, my dear. Don't you worry, I won't be leaving you to fend for yourself. Come, let's not keep my son waiting any longer."

She offers her arm, and after a moment's hesitation, Emma takes it.

"And Emma? You do look very beautiful."

They go downstairs, Emma already wincing at the way the shoes pinch her feet, longing for the mud-caked boots she hasn't seen since she came to Crawley House. They find Matthew eagerly awaiting them at the bottom of the stairs. Emma can't help but notice the way his eyebrows raise when he sees her..and can't help the little thrill of satisfaction that accompanies the sight.

"I was wondering what was taking the two of you so long, but now I see. You look…"

He seems at a loss for words.

"Wonderful, Miss Swan." His voice seems to have deepened, and Emma hates the heat that she feels rising to her face. She can't get attached to these people, no matter how kind they've been to her. She knows better than that.

"Thank you, Mr. Crawley."

"Mother mentioned that you might be a bit nervous for tonight, but I can assure you that you have friends here. I won't abandon you in there, Miss Swan."

For some reason, that makes her smile.


	5. Ruby and Tony Gillingham: Shall We Dance

To anyone on the outside looking in, Lady Mary Crawley and Miss Ruby Lucas would seem the most unlikely sort of friends.

The lady was cool and careful, poised and proper, the perfect picture of an English lady. Miss Lucas, on the other hand, was daring and boisterous, quick to smile and joke and laugh perhaps a bit too loudly, and above all very secretive. Little was known about her other than she was an American heiress who lived with her grandmother, and through some connections or other had made her debut at the same time as Mary. They had met at a ball early in their season and had been inseparable ever since. Those who saw them together put it down to a simple case of opposites attracting. Even now, years after their debuts, Miss Lucas was still always welcome at Downton, where she would always find her dear friend waiting with open arms.

Even now, Mary did not know much about Ruby's background. She knew that her parents were deceased, and that her friend lived with a grandmother almost as formidable as her own. Ruby never volunteered much more than that, and Mary did not think it right to ask. She cared about Ruby's opinion, and didn't want that opinion of her tarnished because she could not control her own curiosity. And so, when she found herself asked about Miss Lucas on the night that Tony Foyle came to stay at Downton, she found herself quite unable to answer him.

"That's my dear friend, Miss Ruby Lucas," she answered, slightly taken aback both by the question posed by her childhood friend and the look in his eyes as he watched Ruby chatting with Edith. His dark eyes seemed to follow her around the room, a soft smile playing on his features as he took in the way the lights seemed to dance in her dark hair and eyes as she threw her head back and laughed.

"Yes, but who _is_ she?"

"I'm not even sure I could tell you," Mary murmured softly.

Everyone at Downton that night could have predicted that Lord Gillingham would ask Miss Lucas to dance. But no one could have predicted the look in her eyes as she seemed to notice him for the first time. It was as if they had known each other before—and maybe, for all Mary knew, they had. They glided across the makeshift dance floor as if they had been made for each other, and not once did they tear their eyes away from each other.


	6. Emma and Matthew: Dinner at Downton

Well, so far she has managed to not embarrass herself too much, at the very least.

She couldn't help the way she had gawked at the sight of Downton Abbey as the car had first pulled up to the drive—Matthew had failed to mention that the estate was a freaking _palace,_ or at least to Emma—or the pink tinge that had taken over her face as Matthew had reached for her hand to help her down out of the rickety automobile (which, she swore, was still making her stomach churn even now—how people stand to travel in those things is _beyond_ her. God, she misses the Bug). "Your hands are cold, Miss Swan," he had said with some surprise, tightening his grip on her. "Please don't be too nervous. These people…they're quite different than what I'm used to, but they're my family. You don't have to worry."

Emma Swan had spent her entire life worrying, worrying and running and shutting people out when they got too close. She knew that's what she should be doing now. But something about the tone of Matthew's voice made her almost want to believe him.

They'd been ushered into the house by a stern-looking butler, who'd then announced their arrival at Downton Abbey to the Crawley family. Emma found herself wondering once again as he walked away just how different life in this era was from her parent's time in the Enchanted Forest. Then, she'd stood nervously as she was introduced to the family: Lord Grantham, a proper English gentleman if she ever saw one; Lady Grantham, who as Matthew had predicted seemed genuinely excited to have another American around; and the three girls, Lady Mary, Sybil, and Edith Crawley. They had all regarded her with a sort of cool curiosity, although she had managed to get genuine smiles from the younger two daughters upon their introduction. Ironically, it was Mary who Emma felt as if she might have the most in common with, the way she held herself back, sizing Emma up before she decided whether to reach out to her or not. Now, she finds herself seated across from Mary at the vast dinner table, having to navigate more courses and utensils than she knows what to do with (_Start from the outside and work your way in,_ she reminds herself, _thank God for_Titanic), doing her best to keep her head down and not draw too much attention to herself, just like Isobel suggested. Of course, such a thing is easier said than done when you're seated at a table full of people who want to get to know you.

"What part of America are you from, Miss Swan?" Sybil—_Lady Sybil, if you want to stay here you have to learn to play by their rules or they'll know something's up—_asks eagerly. "Anywhere near New York?"

Emma knows she means well, but Sybil couldn't have asked a more complicated question if she tried. "I've spent some time there, yeah—yes," she catches herself, smiling at the memories of the year in New York with Henry. Will she ever see her son again? Magic seems so different here…"Really, I kind of grew up everywhere, but in the last few years I've been in Boston and…northern Maine…"

"Oh, Maine is beautiful," Lady Grantham says with a fond smile. "And how are you finding England?"

Emma has to think for a moment, and she swears she sees Matthew hide a smile behind his napkin. "It's…different," she says finally, hoping that will be enough.

"It's very kind of you to take in a stranger like Miss Swan, Isobel," Cora says with a smile. "She's certainly lucky to have made your acquaintance."

"I do agree with you, Cora, but as it happens, Miss Swan and I are not strangers after all. We thought so, at first, but it turns out that Miss Swan and I are long-lost acquaintances. I knew her mother." Isobel explains. Emma resists the urge to arch her eyebrows, impressed at the easy way the lie spills from Isobel's lips. She had guessed this was the story that Isobel would go with, but she hadn't expected she would be quite so good at spinning it. "Years ago, of course, back when she was still Miss—"

"Blanchard," Emma cuts in. Isobel glances at her in surprise, but a moment later her face thankfully relaxes. Clearly she hadn't expected Emma to interrupt, but she can't help it. If she's going to lie about her mother to these people, then she wants at least some of it to be as closed to the truth—even the cursed truth—as possible. "Mary-Margaret Blanchard."

"Indeed," Isobel says softly. "Such a lovely girl. We used to be quite close, actually, once upon a time."

Emma tries not to flinch at the words.

Matthew, seated next to Emma, looks confused. "When did you find this out, Mother?" he asks, setting down his fork. "You never mentioned it to me."

"It was earlier today, while I was getting ready," Emma says quickly. "We forgot to tell you, I guess."

"It's quite all right," he assures her. "I—I'm pleased that you've found you have something in common." Emma studies him for a moment, wineglass half-raised to her lips, looking for any sign that might indicate that he doesn't believe her—but she can see nothing. The rest of the table has fallen silent, and Emma realizes that she and Matthew are basically staring at each other in full view of everyone. She takes a hasty sip of her wine, wishing it was just a bit stronger.

"Well, you certainly must be enjoying your time here," Mary says, startling Emma into looking up at her. "The three of you seem as thick as thieves."

"I'm glad," Matthew says, seemingly without thinking. "I'm very…glad."

"What brought you to Yorkshire in the first place, Miss Swan?" Mary asks her, setting down her own glass of wine.

Emma's eyes widen just slightly, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Isobel's grip on her fork tighten. They hadn't exactly gotten that far into the story. "Oh, just a vacation. Needed to get away for a bit, clear my head, meet some new people."

Now they're all staring at her. "Vacation?"

Clearly, she's slipped up somehow and she doesn't even know what she's said that has them all looking at her like she's just announced that, guess what, she's the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. "Um…" her mind has gone blank, trying to find a word that they'll understand. "Just…a trip. You know. I just wanted some new scenery. This seemed as good a place as any. I guess you could say I was…drawn here."

Oh, that's the understatement of the century. _And_ the next one.

—

"Well, Miss Swan is certainly charming," Cora says later that evening, after the other Crawleys have departed with their guest. "We should have her to stay here some day, Robert. The girls seemed to like her."

"I'd love to have Miss Swan come and stay with us! thought she was absolutely lovely," Sybil chimes in with a smile.

"If you say so," Mary remarks. Her voice is cool and emotionless, almost haughty as she smooths down the fabric of her midnight-blue dress.

"What could you possibly find to not like about that delightful creature?" Edith demands.

"Aside from the fact that she looked as if we were about to roast her alive?" fires back Mary without missing a beat. "I don't know, to be honest. There was just something that seemed a little funny about her—"

"She was nervous!"

"Nervous or not, something didn't feel quite right, that's all," Mary finishes with a shrug. Edith stares at her a moment before a smirk suddenly crosses her face, and the lady's eyes narrow. "What? Why on earth are you looking at me like that?"

"Are you sure you're not just jealous that Cousin Matthew couldn't keep his eyes off of her all night?" her sister asks gleefully.

"Jealous? Of Miss Swan and Cousin Matthew?" Mary scoffs. "Don't be absurd."

—

"Are you sure there's nothing that you can do?" David asks helplessly, glancing over to his wife who holds their son to her chest as if someone will come over at any moment to snatch him away. He doesn't exactly blame her, not after all they've gone through with Zelena, now coupled with the fact that that it seems they've lost their daughter for a second time. Regina shakes her head and sighs, more pity in her eyes than David has ever seen.

"I've done everything I could, David. I can't open the portal again. Zelena made sure that it could only be used once—on this side, anyway. If Emma comes back, it's going to have to be on her own."

"Do you think she can do that?"

Regina sighs, but nods. "I think we've only just begun to scratch the surface of what Emma is capable of. If anyone can come back from this, she can."

"How can you be so sure?" Snow's voice startles them all, even Hook, looking forlorn and lost over in the corner. "How can you know that she's going to come back? We don't even know where she is! Zelena's portal could have taken her anywhere."

"I know," Regina says, her tone sorrowful. "I know. And I'm sorry. But whatever happened to holding onto hope? What if—"

"Grandpa!"

They all look up as Henry comes running in, his face flushed with excitement and a thick book held in his hands. "Grandpa, you have to see this! I found her! I know where she is!"

Regina sits up, furrowing her brow at her son in confusion. At first, she thinks that it's his fairytale book that he holds clutched in his hand, but upon closer inspection she sees that is not the case. It's much thicker, more colorful, and the pages look newer…it almost looks like…

"Henry, is that your history book for school?" Snow asks with a frown, leaning over to see the book as Henry plops it triumphantly on the table.

"Yeah. Mom told me to try to do some of my homework. She said it would help take my mind off things. But look what I found!"

They all crowd around the textbook, which appears to be open to a section on the Edwardian era. Regina frowns as she gazes down at a grainy picture of a family standing in front of a grand estate, their faces solemn as they face the camera. "_Pre-war life at Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, 1913,_" she reads the caption, before looking up at her son in confusion. "Henry, I don't get it. How is your history book going to tell us where Emma is?"

"You have to look closer, Mom. There!"

He points at the photograph, his finger landing on a figure standing between a dark-haired young woman and a man whose eyes seem to pierce Regina's even through the page. Regina's eyes widen as she takes in the woman there, her hair—obviously blonde even with the black-and-white image, her determined expression, and the faintest hint of a smirk on her face as she gazes into the camera's lens…

"Oh my God," Regina whispers.

The woman in the picture is Emma.


	7. Emma and Matthew: Can't Sleep

Emma Swan can't sleep.

All night she's tossed and turned, her mind only on Henry, as it has been more or less since she arrived in 1913. She gave up around three in the morning, according to the grandfather clock in the hallway, and has now found herself in the kitchen, rummaging through cupboards, taking things off the stove, sneaking bites of biscuit and searching for something, anything, that she could use to get back home.

She's not sure what she could possibly find in an Edwardian kitchen that could help send her back to her own time, but it's better than sitting on her ass doing nothing, waiting to be rescued. For all she knows, Regina and the others haven't even noticed she's gone—is time passing differently for them? Have her weeks in Yorkshire only been a few seconds for them? She doesn't know, and she can't afford to wait around and find out later. As much as she has to admit that she likes it here, as grateful as she is to Matthew and Isobel for taking her in, Emma can't stay. She has a town to protect, a son that needs her, a family and a new baby brother that she hasn't even begun to get to know. Her parents missed watching her grow up. She's not going to miss watching her brother grow up just because she's currently trapped in the past. She'll never forgive herself if she does. There has to be some way to unleash her magic, some way to reopen the portal, to—

"Miss Swan?"

_Shit._

She turns and sees Matthew in the darkened doorway, peering curiously at her. "Is that you?" he asks again, his voice more hesitant now. Emma nods, slowly, realizing with a start that he's in a pair of adorably striped pajamas and a blue robe while she's not much better, her robe and nightgown making her feel more exposed than she has been since she arrived. She hopes she hasn't scandalized the poor man too badly.

"Yeah, it's me," she says somewhat sheepishly. "Did I wake you?"

"No, not at all. I couldn't sleep."

"Me either."

"I thought a cup of tea might help. I see you've had the same idea."

"What?" Emma asks before looking down at her hand. She hadn't realized that it had been a kettle she'd grabbed off the stove. "Oh…yeah. Tea. Right."

"May I join you, Miss Swan?"

She can't help it—she arches an eyebrow. "Are you allowed to? We won't get in trouble or something?" He still looks confused, and she sighs, pulling her robe—she's heard Beth and Isobel refer to it as a dressing gown—tighter around herself. "I don't want to overstep any bounds. There's…there's a lot more rules here than I'm used to."

"Are things that much different in America?" he asks, his tone curious as always.

Emma bites her lip to hide the smile. "You have no idea."

"Well, I won't lie to you and say that we won't raise a few eyebrows if we're caught, but I think my mother will understand that a simple midnight cup of tea in the kitchen is nothing to be ashamed of, don't you think?" He smiles and takes a seat at the wooden table across from her, resting his chin on his folded arms. "She's not as old-fashioned as, well, others might be. And you look like you could use the company. Frankly, so could I. If neither of us can sleep, better to enjoy each other's company than suffer alone, isn't it?"

"You're probably right," Emma says with a sigh. "You may certainly join me."

"Here, allow me." Before Emma knows what's happened, Matthew has taken the teakettle from her and filled it with water, fiddling with the stove to bring it back up again—Emma wonders if it ever truly goes out, and finds herself thinking uneasily of fire hazards. "Please, sit," he says as he turns back to her with a smile. There's a small table in the kitchen, probably for preparing food or hanging out while it cooks, and Emma finds herself seated opposite a very tired Matthew Crawley who is obviously completely unaware of the fact that locks of his blond hair are sticking up—rather cutely, she might add—in all directions.

_Reign it in, Swan. Don't get distracted._

She's silent for a while, busying herself with pulling at a loose thread on the sleeve of her dressing gown. She can feel Matthew's blue eyes on her, his gaze soft and curious, and part of her feels a pang that she can't let him in, can't tell him the truth about who and what she is. She hasn't even told Isobel the whole story, not yet, and the idea of Matthew being angry or disappointed in her for lying hurts in a way that she hadn't expected. She sighs and bites her lip. She shouldn't want to open up to him—to anyone. She knows better than that. But why is shutting him out so damn hard?

She doesn't realize he's spoken until he clears his throat politely, smiling at her. "Sorry. Zoned out. What was that?"

He looks amused at her modern jargon, but doesn't comment on it. "I was asking what kind of tea you'd like."

"Oh. Um…" she resists the urge to make a face. "Actually…you might not have it, but do you know what sounds good? Hot cocoa."

"Hot cocoa?" He looks amused, but delighted. "I do believe that can be arranged, Miss Swan."

"You don't have to—"

"I insist."

He gets to his feet, rummaging through cabinets and pulling out a tin of what has to be cocoa powder and a little milk. Emma watches in fascination as he painstakingly prepares what would take her a packet of Swiss Miss and a microwave to make back home. She has to admit she's impressed. "I didn't take you for much of a cocoa man," she says with a smile, watching him. "And you can make it yourself."

He chuckles. "I didn't always live the glamorous life of an heir, Miss Swan. My family may be upper middle class, as my mother loves to remind me, but I've always taken a certain sense of pride in being able to look after myself." He turns around, two steaming teacups in his hands, and offers one to her. "There you are."

"Hang on." Emma's on her feet before he can even sit down again, opening up cabinets and drawers she knows she has no business getting into, but she can't help it—she's a woman on a mission. She opens a few tins and jars and gives them an experimental sniff before locating what she needs and bringing it to the table, topping off her hot chocolate with a generous pinch of spice.

Matthew looks intrigued. "You put cinnamon on yours?"

"It's a little weird, I know. I've just always drunk it this way." The smile on her face fades a bit as her mind wanders to Henry and her mother. Are they missing her? Will she ever see them again? _I can't stay here…I can't…They need me. Henry needs me. I can't stay._

"Is it good, then?"

"Delicious. I can't have it any other way."

He studies her a minute, a smile quirking at the corner of his lips, before holding out his own cup. "I'll try some."

"You really don't have to—"

"I'd like to try some, Miss Swan, really. Please."

She studies him a minute, eyebrow arched, trying to figure out whether he's really serious. When her superpower doesn't detect any hint of a lie, she sprinkles a bit of cinnamon into his cup, watching him closely as he takes it back and takes a sip.

His blue eyes widen, and Emma has to bite back a chuckle as he looks at her in wonder. "Delicious indeed," he agrees, taking another drink as Emma's hands fold around her cup, savoring the warmth before she takes a drink herself.

"You really like it?"

"It's wonderful!"

She laughs again. "Glad to see I'm good for something."

"Don't say such things about yourself, Miss Swan. We're glad you're here. Very…very glad you're here."

At breakfast the next morning, she's unable to hide her smile when Matthew asks for hot cocoa with cinnamon.


	8. Emma and Matthew: Music

Three weeks.

Three weeks at Downton. Three weeks of living with the Crawleys, who have remained far more generous than Emma knows they have any right to be. Three weeks away from Storybrooke, three weeks spent futilely trying to find a way back to them, back home. It almost seems impossible, like at any moment she'll wake up and be back in her own bed in David and Mary Margaret's loft, the smell of her father's famous pancakes filling her nose and Henry calling up the stairs to her that breakfast is ready. But no, this is real, all of it—Downton village and Crawley House, the Earl of Grantham and his family, Isobel…Matthew.

Matthew is very real.

Emma is all too aware of Matthew's realness—the feeling of his eyes on her across the dinner table, the sound of his voice as they talk over tea, the annoying little flutter she sometimes feels in her chest when she sees him riding home on his bicycle. (She tells herself it's just the damn corset, and sometimes she even believes it). As much as she tries to hide behind her walls like she's always done, somehow it's more difficult here in 1913 than it ever has in her entire life. Maybe finding her family—finding her home—after all this time has changed something with in her. Maybe it's the kindness he's shown her, right from the very beginning. She isn't sure if she's ever met someone who seems as genuinely _kind_ and _concerned_ about her as Matthew does, at least not right off the bat. He's a true English gentleman, all right, and sometimes it's all that Emma can do not to fall for his charms. _Don't get too close, _she tells herself over and over again, but the more time that passes, the more her chances of going home seem to dwindle before her eyes, she finds it harder and harder to listen to her own advice.

Some days, she avoids him—doesn't emerge in the morning until she knows he's already left for work in the village, disappears until dinner. She can feel how rude she's being, how hurt he is on days when they hardly speak, but won't it hurt him worse to wake up one morning and find her gone? Isn't it better to let him down as gently as she can now?

Emma isn't sure about anything anymore. Maybe that's what scares her the most.

She's on her way to the sitting room when an unfamiliar sound—in his house anyway—begins to fill her ears. A soft, sweet melody being played on piano…and as she creeps closer, she hears a voice begin to sing.

_"I've a very strange feeling I ne'er felt before__  
><em>_It's a kind of a grind of depression__  
><em>_My heart's acting strangely, it feels rather sore__  
><em>_At least it gives me that impression__  
><em>_My pulses leap madly without any cause__  
><em>_Believe me, I'm telling you truly…"_

Matthew.

He's seated at the piano, his back to her, lost in his own little world. His voice is quiet, smooth, like it is when he speaks. He's no Broadway star, but he's still _good,_ and maybe made even better by the fact that he doesn't know that anyone's watching him. The song is one she's never heard before, but for some reason, that just makes her like it more. She stands transfixed in the doorway, watching him, letting herself get swept up in his sweet little song.

"_For I'm falling in love with someone __  
><em>_Some one girl__  
><em>_I'm falling in love with someone__  
><em>_Head awhirl…"_

Emma's eyes widen.

_Love?_

_Oh God._

She turns to go, but her feet get caught on the hem of her dress before she can take more than a step. She cries out and Matthew's music abruptly stops. She steadies herself just in time to see him leap up from the piano bench, his eyes wide and looking slightly dazed to be startled out of his reverie. "Miss Swan?"

"Sorry," she whispers, mortified. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—scare you. I just—I tripped—"

"Are you all right?"

"I'm great," she pants, her heart pounding with embarrassment. "I'm fine, I mean. Really."

"I—er—good."

For a moment they stare at each other.

"I—-I thought you had to work."

"I only had one appointment today. It ended early, so I thought I'd come home and have lunch with you and mother."

"She's…at the hospital."

"Yes, I—I realize that now."

Emma swears she can almost see the silence hanging in the air between them.

"I didn't know you sang."

_Thank God_, she thinks as she sees his face relax into a smile. "Only a little, really," he admits. "I can explain the piano, Mother made me take essons as a boy—I complained about it at first, but I really rather liked it. The singing, I can't really explain, as I've never had any formal training. I've just always loved music, I suppose. But i'm certainly not a master."

She smiles. "Well, you sounded good to me, anyway."

"It's from a show I saw down in London a year or two ago. An operetta. I've forgotten the name of it now. I think it did better in America than it did here. But…I did always like that particular song."

"It's pretty," she agrees, still feeling like a fool.

"Do you play at all?" he asks.

She makes a face. "Does 'Three Blind Mice' count?" The time most kids begin taking piano lessons was the time Emma was being bounced around relentlessly from foster home to foster home, so there hadn't been much of an opportunity to foster her musical talent—if she had any.

He chuckles, and for a single second Emma feels like she's won the lottery. "I suppose it does count for something. And do you sing, at all? Or do you like to?"

"I don't sing much," she says, smiling now in spite of herself. "But…maybe I could be persuaded." _As long as it doesn't get more lyrically complex than Disney songs—wait, where did that come from? Aren't you supposed to be pulling away? Damn it. Emma, focus!_

"Perhaps I'll teach it to you sometime."

"Perhaps you will."

(Note: The song Matthew sings here, "I'm Falling in Love With Someone" is from an operetta called _Naughty Marietta_, which was written in 1910 and which, presumably, Matthew might have been familiar with. There's also a version of it in the 2002 musical _Thoroughly Modern Millie,_ and if you want to have a listen, that's the version I recommend. It's always been my headcanon that Matthew is a theatre person—he knew the title of a flopped show, for heaven's sake—so I LOVE exploring this side of him.)


	9. Edith and August: Granny's Diner

He tries to forget her.

Honestly, he does. He has other things to worry about, getting Emma to trust him again and stopping whatever curse has taken hold of his body chief among them. He doesn't have time to take a woman from some other realm under his wing, he tells himself. She hadn't said a word as he'd spoken to Granny, gotten a room for her taken care of, tried to explain to her as best he could where she had found herself. He'd walked away after getting her settled, leaving her standing in the hallway, hating each step he took but knowing it was better for both of them. What could he even say to her that she would believe, anyway? The people in this town didn't even know who they were until a few short weeks ago.

August knows shouldn't care about this woman. Ruby and Granny can take care of her, and he has more important things to worry about. But when he sees her at Granny's a few days later, looking uncomfortable and out of place in jeans that don't fit her quite right and a cardigan that she keeps pulling around herself subconsciously, her fingers curling around a mug of tea, he can't help but feel sorry for the poor kid. She looks so fragile and vulnerable, so lost and alone, that he's almost reminded of—

"Mr. Booth!"

Busted.

He clenches his jaw a moment before turning around to face her. "Hey there," he says softly. "Settling in okay?"

"Not particularly," she admits, settling back down into her seat. "I keep thinking this is all a dream. Everyone's been very kind, but…"

_But you're still terrified. Been there._

"I have to say it's nice to see a familiar face."

He can't help it. He takes the seat across from her.


	10. Emma and Matthew: Rain

Downton Abbey is always beautiful, but it becomes sort of haunting in the rain.

The air is thick with rain, the smell of wet earth filling her nose as she stands just outside the house, still protected from the moisture by the little alcove she's sequestered herself away in and the brim of her hat. Her hands are folded in front of her, but beneath her gloves no one would ever know that she is currently gripping her fingers so tightly she can feel her knuckles starting to go white. It looks so peaceful in the rain, such a sharp contrast to the inferno she feels under her skin, her magic begging to get out—but it can't.

There is no magic here.

Downton looks so much like Storybrooke in the rain, almost achingly so in the way the entire world has gone soft and gray all around her, but there is no magic to be found. Or if it is, it is far out of her reach, somewhere Emma cannot go.

All the time she spent not believing in Henry when he told her about magic, and now there isn't anything she wouldn't give to be able to use it again to get back to him.

"I'm sorry," she whispers to herself, blinking back tears. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't come home to you. I'm trying, I promise I am. But I can't. You always believed in me, Henry…but I don't think the savior can even save herself right now. I'm so sorry…"

"Miss Swan?"

_Not now._

She turns to Matthew just as she hears the rain pick up and he jogs into view, his blue eyes wide with concern, making him look like an injured puppy dog. "Mother sent me to find you. She said that something upset you during tea with Cousin Cora and Cousin Violet. Is…is anything wrong?"

"No," she says quickly, too quickly, so quickly that Matthew blinks at her in surprise. "No," she repeats, her voice softer this time. "I just…I needed some air…"

"It's freezing," he says quietly, and Emma suddenly grasps the fact that she is cold, colder than she allowed herself to realize. "You should get inside. You'll catch cold."

She stares at him, the grey tweed of his hat dark with rain, the wet patches on the shoulders of his suit jacket. "So will you."

"I was concerned about you, Miss Swan. I wanted…I wanted to make sure that you were all right."

_I'm not used to people putting me first._

_"_I…."

_I miss my parents,_ she wants to say._ I miss my son—the son I can't even tell you about just in case you toss my ass to the curb for being some kind of fallen woman. I miss my Bug. I miss Killian and Belle, and Ruby and Granny and Regina, and the sea, and…_

"I miss home," she says finally.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Matthew says, sounding truly sorry.

"And the funny thing is, I never had a home growing up, not really." He looks about to ask her something, but she plows on, knowing she won't be able to answer his questions with any degree of truth, for some reason unable to stomach the thought of lying to him again, not when he's out here in the rain with her and looking at her like that. "And now I have one…or maybe I have two. Maybe this could be home. I don't know. But someone…someone told me once that you don't have a home until you just…miss it."

To his credit, he doesn't push her after that. He doesn't ask her anymore questions, or try to tell her that it will all be all right, or entreat her to come inside with him where it's warm and dry. He doesn't say another word. He just edges slightly closer to her, close enough that she can hear him breathing, as they stand there and watch the rain.


End file.
